


Wounds (So Lonely, Nightmares)

by Aryas_aria



Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU in which everyone dies, Bloody, Book Spoilers, Dark, F/M, Show Spoilers, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-24 22:47:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22465882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria
Summary: AU in which Arya never escapes King's Landing and all the other Starks die
Relationships: Jon Snow/ Arya Stark
Series: Jonrya Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612894
Comments: 8
Kudos: 61
Collections: Jonrya Week: January 2020





	Wounds (So Lonely, Nightmares)

“A golden cage is still a cage.”—Daedalus, _Circe_

***

Arya Stark didn’t particularly like sleeping when she first came to King’s Landing. Sleeping meant dreaming, and that could be dangerous. Sometimes it’s cold winds and howling trees in the body of a fearsome beast, it’s wolves smaller than her cozying up in her fur, looking to her to lead. But most times, it’s not. The first time she dreamed something terrible was the night before Joffrey took her father. She didn’t realize until after his head rolled on the steps of Baelor that she had dreamed about the doves flying high in the sky, the limp body of Ned Stark falling unceremoniously to the stone. She didn’t have long to process that terrible truth before the Lannister dogs were upon her, ripping her out of the crowd and Needle out of her hands forever.

The next nightmare had been worse as she tossed and turned in her “rooms” the queen and Joffrey had so graciously seen fit to confine her to. That night she dreamt that the seas had come to Winterfell and washed her little brothers away. Bran and Rickon had not been able to swim against the tide and, when the maids finally woke her from the dream, Joffrey had been all too happy to summon her and Sansa both to court for all to hear of Theon’s betrayal. The news of Bran and Rickon’s actual deaths had come later, but Arya already knew.

The third time she had a night terror, she had been exhausted, falling into bed gratefully if it meant escaping Joffrey’s sardonic leers and Sansa’s sniveling cries. In her mind, she saw a grand feast being prepared before a bride and groom. The hearth was full and people were smiling and dancing, like a proper wedding, pleasant enough until a sniveling man had her brave brother shot full of arrows and her mother’s throat cut to the bone. Joffrey had taunted Sansa and her both with the pelt from Grey Wind’s skin for a moon’s turn, making them both wear it on occasion. Sansa would cry, but she never did no matter how much it hurt to run her hands through the wolf’s once beautiful fur.

Things seemed destitute for a while after that, and she must have lost hope, lost the essence of that fierce girl she used to be. She was such a ghost in those days, going through life in equal parts rage and terror, but utterly helpless. Who would stop Joffrey if he chose to torment her now? Father and Robb were dead, even the Baratheon kings gone as well. There was no one to check the queen’s malice or Joffrey’s fury, and she was the disposable one, the defiant one. They would secure the north through Sansa’s womb, she would just be a little amusement here and there. She grew up fast in those days, never forgetting her hate but learning to mask it instead. But one day she would escape, with Sansa too, and then she’d make them pay. She’d go back north and bring winter down upon the Lannister’s stupid golden heads.

That is, until she dreamed a serpent came and dragged Sansa away by her hair, though her sister didn’t resist much in her vision. And then a fortnight later, when Joffrey was choking on his pie, Sansa had vanished.

Some moons later, after Tommen has been kinder than Joffrey but not as kind as he might have been when they first met at Winterfell, when she sleeps on silk sheets in a high tower guarded night and day because she is the last of the Starks, she dreams of Sansa and Littlefinger, high up in a snowy castle. She calls to Sansa just before her sister falls, but she never can reach her in time. The letter that told of Lord Baelish’s execution says nothing of her older sister, but she knows that this Alayne who had helped Baelish push her aunt from the Moon Door was her. It makes her sad to know that even Sansa has been taken away from her for good, though she knows she shouldn’t be _that_ sad. After all, Sansa had not hesitated to leave Arya behind when she escaped, and every chance she got, she would direct Joffrey’s hatred onto Arya instead of herself. It had been an easy thing to do, especially since Arya was the one who had shamed the spoiled king so on the Trident all that time ago. And now Cersei insists that Arya wear wolf pelts with every dress they think to put her in now. And Arya understands the insult for what it is. _Look at this fearsome beast_ her garments taunt, _a wolf of all things, the last Stark. Trapped in the Lion’s den._ Arya hates it.

But now…

Now she dreams of Jon. It has been so long since she dreamed of him. In the early days, she had loved to think of him, to remember some joke or affection shared between the two. But when she first dreamed of Jon, she saw him at the Wall, rage and anger writ over his lovely face before turning away from the snowy fortress. That had been at the beginning, before everything had gone terribly wrong, before she was alone in the world, with only her name to protect her from death. She had not dreamed of Jon for so long, and at first she was afraid to, glad even that she did not. Childishly, she thought that if she did not think of him, did not call to memory his beautiful smile or how good it felt when he hugged her or the joy they shared when she would reign kisses on him, then he would be safe. She was a killer after all, and her dreams poisoned. Father, Bran, Rickon, Robb, mother, and even Sansa—she had dreamed of each of their deaths, and the old gods had made them so.

The first time she dreamed of Jon in so long, she had been terrified, even while still asleep, for what it would mean for him. He was riding a splendid red dragon of all things, and burning down the Wall as thousands of men and women and children filtered past. That had been nonsense she knew, for all the dragons were dead and the Wall could never fall, but it still made her cry to see his face. And when she woke, she had screamed in hysteria, cried and shouted and tore her hair because the gods would take even Jon from her now surely. She remembers the panic she had caused that morning in her state, Cersei demanding that she be whipped while Tywin ordered Pycelle to give her dreamwine. She recalls pleading for them to do anything but that, “I don’t want to close my eyes,” she begged. “No, not that, please.” It was of no use, Pycelle sent her back to dream world and she saw Jon’s beautiful face once more.

He was older, stronger, and so, so irresistible than all those years ago at Winterfell. She saw Jon the man, Jon the leader, Jon the…king? He was being proclaimed King, at Winterfell! Grizzly old men and women bold as can be, kneeling at his feet, singing his praises. He did not smile, and that more than anything made her heart clench. He had always smiled for _her_ , but she was a ghost now, an ornament in Tommen’s halls, the girl she is now would make him sad. Jon looked as sad as she felt, and oh has it really been six years? Has she really survived all this time without him? She cries at the thought that she is being shown her lovely Jon again only for him to be taken away. He calls to her, promises that he is coming for her before she can wake. And it does calm her spirit just a bit, despite her best efforts to not think of him.

When she wakes from that fantasy, they treat her gently after that but guard her ever so closely, afraid of what she might do to herself. It is all for naught as she only spends her days in the pitiful Godswood of the Red Keep after that, on hands and knees begging like she has never done before to the old gods to please take these dreams away. She asks the gods to let her never see Jon’s face again, despair gripping her heart at the thought, but strengthening her resolve if it means it will keep him safe, keep him alive.

Tywin is convinced that Cersei let Joffrey go too far, that she is unhinged now. Cersei argues that she need not be sane to bear a child for Lancel, for that is to be her husband to ensure the Lannisters have Winterfell. She observes them all in silence, and that terrifies them even more, her quietness, her calm. They know her rage, delight in it even, but this girl who makes no protest when they drape her in fine silks and rub scented oils into her hair, this young woman who dutifully attends court and hardly utters a word is a new beast to them, and they do not know what to anticipate next.

It shocks the court some weeks later, herself most of all, hardly believing it when her dreams turn true once again, when news reaches them that Jon has been proclaimed the rightful heir of the Seven Kingdoms, the last Targaryen. He has made quick work of the Boltons and the Iron Islands, claiming back Winterfell in her name and leading a host of Northmen, River lords, and Vale knights to take the Iron Throne, to save _her,_ to claim her as his bride. It makes Cersei furious, putting on a spectacle that very day in the throne room, the golden shine of her hair seeming to burn as her green eyes sparkle in rage. And Arya permits a brief smile as the Lannister woman seethes and Tommen and Tywin both balk in the face of more news. The messenger is not done it seems, for he brings tidings of Jon’s _dragon_ soaring above his army, red as rubies and undoubtedly proving his Targaryen heritage, much like the famed blade at his hip, Dark Sister. She laughs then, Lannisters be damned, smiles so wide to know that the bastard boy she had loved with all her heart is king now, brave and true, and has never forgotten her, _wants_ her, will burn the world _for her_.

She cannot wait to sleep now, to dream of Jon and Ghost and that fearsome beast that breathes fire and will mean her freedom. And the dreams are doubly sweet now, for she dreams she is a beast all her own again, allowing herself to feel the wind rustling through her fur and her brother, her mate, at her side as they march toward the capital. And sometimes, when she is inside her wolf, she thinks Jon is inside his, can feel the otherness, the something more inside Ghost when he cuddles up near her or nips her ear gently.

It all makes her restless, and she prays to the old gods to give her courage, flings Cersei’s words right back at her, refuses to balk at Tywin’s imposing figure any longer. The wolf inside her claws to be let out, to fight and bite and devour these little lions that have taken most everything from her. She’s spent so long inside this cage they have built for her, glittering and golden and oh so brutal. They though to break her, to defeat her, forgetting that their claws are no match for her own. And Jon will free her, will save her, will love her.

They may put her in a cage, but they will never tame her. When Jon comes, she will be waiting. When Jon comes, she will let her beast run free.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 coming tomorrow where we'll see what Jon has really been up to all this time


End file.
